


The Trouble In Times Square Affair

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Community: section7mfu, Gen, Round Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: This chapter begins the 2020 Christmas Round Robin from Section VII on Live Journal.
Kudos: 9
Collections: The Trouble in Times Square Affair





	The Trouble In Times Square Affair

Illya Kuryakin was in a tight spot. He had his partner on one side, a gun to his head and a madman threatening to kill him.

On the other side, a young woman whose life was ebbing away as she bled from a stab wound inflicted by the same lunatic now threatening Napoleon.

“Major Durham, please…’ Illya hated the idea of pleading with this man, but he had to save them, even at the cost of his pride. Napoleon moved his head ever so slightly, he knew what was going through Illya's mind and the risk it would be for everyone involved.

“You don’t need to kill anyone. Miss Claiborne is urgently in need of care, surely you can allow us to get her to hospital.” It was futile, deep down Illya knew it, and Napoleon knew it as well. All the American needed was one small opening, just enough to divert the man's attention

Catherine Claiborne groaned, the little bit of life still in her fighting for survival. Her status as a socialite had been too much of a temptation for Durham. A low level THRUSH himself, he thought an infusion of cash would change his future within the Hierarchy. Now he was walled in by UNCLE agents, and an angry Russian was ready to pull the trigger if anything went wrong. Durham had to act like he had control, and holding a gun on Solo was his only play if he wanted to get out of here alive.

Each of the three men in the room were calculating the odds of survival if he should fail to do what was necessary. Added to their own survival was the hope that Catherine Claiborne might also live past this encounter. Napoleon's options were limited, but Illya might be able to do something.

In a split second of motion, Illya dove down, aiming at Durham. The major hesitated just long enough for Napoleon to duck as two shots were fired simultaneously. Free of Durham’s grip, Napoleon watched as the major fell to the floor. Illya had put a bullet between his eyes, a fatal shot.

“Illya, you…’ Lying on the floor next to Catherine, Illya’s white shirt was showing a bloom of red.

“Oh no… Illya, buddy… oh god.” Napoleon looked again at Catherine, felt for a pulse. Napoleon opened his communicator and called for help. They were in Queens, near the newly constructed Shea Stadium. Waverly assured him that there would be no delays getting help to the site.

"Hold on Illya, the cavalry's coming."

"I do not need an army... ' Illya stretched out his hand, reaching for Napoleon's arm.

"Miss Claiborne?" Napoleon shook his head.

"You did what you could, it was already too late my friend. Illya?" Napoleon removed his jacket and used it to staunch the blood flow from his partner. The bullet appeared to have struck near his abdomen, but Napoleon didn’t know where exactly… there was so much blood. The clock was moving too slowly, and all he could do was wait.

The minutes seemed to drag on. Napoleon tried to keep Illya awake, but he was going into shock; too much blood loss, just like Miss Claiborne. He couldn't think like that, help would be on the scene quickly; the UNCLE helicopter was being dispatched with medics on board. An ambulance would be arriving as soon as possible. How many times had he sat by Illya's side, unsure of whether or not he would live through the latest assault. Napoleon felt helpless, revisiting the past hour to see whether or not things might have turned out differently.

He heard the helicopter. The building they were in had an adjacent parking lot where it would land. Before long voices rang out.

“Napoleon! Napoleon, where are you? Where…” It was April, and before she finished asking again she spotted her friends beyond the wide bay doors. It was bright outside, making it difficult to adjust to the darkness within the big warehouse.

“Over here, they’re in here!’’ She was directing the medical personnel, a doctor and a nurse; she remained outside to watch for the ambulance. As much as she wanted to know how Illya was, she dreaded the scene she would encounter. She had heard Napoleon’s call.

She knew it was bad.

Inside, the doctor went to work on Illya after ascertaining from Napoleon that Catherine Claiborne was dead. Too much blood loss from a severed femoral artery was more than she could survive without immediate care. Working on Kuryakin, Doctor Willem Holtquist was amazed that he was still hanging on; he was relieved to see the ambulance attendants, helping them to load the patient and opting to ride back with them to UNCLE Headquarters Medical Center. Looking at Napoleon Solo, he was certain that there would be two in Kuryakin’s room tonight, so typical of the partners in the Command.

There would be a clean up crew coming soon, the usual protocol after an event such as this. Napoleon was reluctant to leave the woman whose life had been lost here, he was the agent on the scene and should be on hand when they arrived. He felt ... defeated.

Napoleon walked slowly out of the darkened interior of the building, the brilliance of a sunny afternoon was in stark contrast to Napoleon’s frame of mind. His partner was in critical condition, an innocent was dead. The monster who caused all of it was also dead, whatever information they might have gleaned from him lost. Not that Napoleon would grieve over it, the man deserved what he got.

April was still outside, waiting for her superior. She had watched as Illya was loaded into the ambulance, a worried look on the doctor’s face doing little to encourage her.

“Napoleon, what happened in there?” Of course there was always danger, but to lose an innocent was always a cause for concern and possibly review.

“Durham took Miss Claiborne as a hostage, hoping to collect a ransom from her father's business. It was a coincidence that we stumbled onto this; we had a lead that he would be somewhere close by.' Napoleon looked around, putting the details in order.

"Nothing was the way we'd been told, so Illya and I split up to look for him. It might not have gone this way, but when I happened to walk in on him with Catherine, he threatened her, and then Illya showed up. When Durham saw…’ Napoleon paused, seeing again in his mind the scene that had just transpired.

“I guess Illya and I must have exchanged a look, a gesture… I don’t know. But Durham caught it, and he slashed her leg. She fell down, and there was so much blood...' Napoleon let his gaze shift elsewhere, once again seeing it all playing out in his mind.

"Illya reached for his gun, but the man suddenly had his gun at my temple. I dropped mine, hoping he’d retreat.”

April could see the strain, heard it in Napoleon’s voice. Partners, the best of them, were brothers in arms. She understood, and she had Mark’s back on every mission, as he had hers.

“Napoleon, Illya will be alright. Like he always says, he’s fine.” Not that she really believed it, her voice sounded weak and unsure. They needed more than optimism this time.

“April, I’ve seen Illya hurt before. But he was so… ‘ Napoleon sighed, hating to say what he was thinking.

“He looked lifeless. I don’t know if he’ll make it this time.” There were tears welling up in April Dancer’s eyes, making Napoleon regret he had verbalized his fears. He wrapped his arms around her, knowing her affection for his friend went beyond camaraderie. They both needed Illya to live.

Very suddenly she straightened up, pushing Napoleon away and stepping back. It was almost a rebuke as if he were analyzing her body language.

“That’s enough of that. Illya will live, he’s going to live and we’re not going to say anything negative. Ever. Never again. Do you hear me? Illya won’t give up and neither will we.” It was a brave speech, and April hoped it was true. So did Napoleon.

Alexander Waverly came down to the Medical wing in the early hours of the morning. He wasn’t surprised to find Napoleon Solo asleep in the big recliner in Kuryakin’s room. Because so many agents insisted on sitting bedside when their partners were stricken, certain rooms designated for critical patients were gifted with comfortable chairs. Recliners made it easier for the waiting partner to get some sleep while fulfilling their need to keep vigil. Such was the case now, and while most of the staff were home in bed, Mr. Waverly was wandering the halls at two-thirty in the morning.

The nurse assigned to Illya’s care greeted the Chief with all of the pertinent information. Mister Kuryakin was stable, the surgery to remove the bullet and repair of the artery had been a time sensitive procedure complicated by extreme loss of blood. As Waverly observed his number two man, a flood of memories rushed from his past tours on battlefields littered with the bodies of fallen warriors. Times like these weighed heavily on his heart and mind; an unwillingness to lose anyone was combating the need for sacrifice in their war on evil.

“Thank you Miss Kelly, I believe I will sit here with my agents for a bit. We won’t wake Mister Solo… I’ll be fine.“ He dismissed the young nurse with a nod, glad to sit in the silence and grateful no one could see his tears behind the stern expression. When he left the room, his resolve was still intact. Mister Kuryakin would live to fight yet another day.

Napoleon awoke to the sound of voices. Doctor Holtquist was discussing the case with the new nurse on duty. He mentally wiped away some of the fuzziness crowding in around his memory of the day before. Illya looked a little better, not quite as pale as he remembered him being after coming back in from surgery.

“Mister Solo, I’m sorry if we woke you.” Napoleon shook his head, a lock of hair falling over his eyebrow; he needed to remember to get a haircut before he started looking like Illya. The thought of that made him smile just a little before turning his attention back to the doctor.

“No, no… I need to be up. I still have to work for a living.” His attempt at humor was appreciated, but Holtquist and his nurse understood it was humor under duress.

“Illya, Mister Kuryakin… He’s going to be fine Napoleon. It was a little too close for comfort, I don’t mind saying it now. But, he’s going to be fine. There will be some recovery time, of course, but a few days in here and then resting at home… I figure he can come back in on desk duty in about two weeks. That’s not too bad, eh?” A definite inflection in his words made Napoleon like the man even more than for his excellent work on Illya.

“No, not bad at all. Say, are you Canadian? I only ask because my mother’s family is Canadian; Quebec, which is why Illya dislikes my French accent.”

The bed sheets rustled before a low voice lamented over that comment.

“I dislike your accent because it is so awful.”

Napoleon smiled, a genuinely happy expression. Illya was fine, just like always.

Perhaps he ought to say what he was thinking, to express his gratitude for Illya's life. Perhaps he would say it… _in French._

_******_

Times Square was hustling with activity, the stores filled with Christmas shoppers carrying bags where gifts were tucked inside and waiting to be wrapped in papers and ribbons. In one of those stores a solemn scene was emerging as news of the death of Catherine Claiborne was announced to her father and mother. 

_A random act of violence, and two enforcement agents unable to save her. One of them was also badly injured, but he would survive_.

Randall Claiborne ran a successful business, catering to a clientele that could afford his European imports of wine and gourmet food items. The store itself was festooned with the trappings of the Christmas season; a crystal chandelier sparkled overhead as its light danced across the elegant displays.

Claiborne owned a home on Long Island and another one in Martha's Vineyard, symbolizing a lifestyle earned by cunning and hard work. He should have been immune to this sort of tragedy; his money should have been a shelter. Instead, it had been the reason for his daughter’s death at the hands of a madman. 

_Why?_ It was a question that required an answer.

“What agency, what manner of _enforcement agent_ , let my daughter die?” The question was accompanied by a tone of accusation, as though the men who failed Catherine were somehow more responsible for her death than the man who struck the death blow.

“Sir, those men did everything in their power, they…’ Randall looked the agent in the eye, daring him to deny a thorough explanation of who had been on the scene.

“The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement fights crime, Mister Claiborne. One man died, the one who, umm…. The man who killed Miss Claiborne. Another nearly died in an attempt to disarm him; it was all in an effort to save your daughter.’ There was a pause, an attempt to retain a tone of sympathy and calm.

“UNCLE is there for _you._ _We are here_ to defend people such as your daughter.”

The Section III agent was named Collier Adams, and he was accompanied by a New York police officer named Jimmy Dawson. Neither man felt comfortable with Claiborne’s attitude, he was assigning blame to the wrong people.

Marjorie Claiborne sat at a table normally reserved for customers who wished to sample some of the unctuous cheeses, or sip on French wine. Surrounding her were the products that filled the store, and her family’s lives.

There were chocolates in decorative tins, caviar smuggled in from the Soviet Union. There was every type of delicacy for the discerning connoisseurs in and around New York City. She and her husband had built a small empire in this store, and the reason was simple: They had done it all for their daughter Catherine.

In this agonizing moment, the only thing going through Marjorie’s mind were memories of her beautiful daughter, and a rising hatred for anyone involved in her death. 

It was now the end of the day, and the streetlights began to shine in the emerging darkness, along with Christmas lights installed in every store window. The Claiborne shop, _Eurovista Gourmet_ , had lights on a timer. Even as the couple grieved, their store was suddenly lit with colorful lights around a cheery Christmas tableau in their display window. The glass sparkled, reflecting light from all directions. Under different circumstances this would have been a charming scene, only now it seemed garish and crude.

Randall Claiborne had built his business on the good will of people he met during and after the war. Some were business owners themselves, and once informed of Randall’s vision, they were eager to join his venture as exporters of fine food and wine. The business collaboration proved to be a success, a prosperous venture indeed for all involved.

But now it all seemed worthless to the man whose daughter had been slain for the lust of wealth. His wealth, his daughter… his grief. His heart was breaking while his will to have some sort of retribution for the heinous act was strengthening with each passing minute.

“So, this agent who was nearly killed, will he live?” Both of the Claiborne’s listened for something that would satisfy them; they needed the satisfaction of knowing the one who had failed to save Catherine would suffer her fate as well.

“Agent Ku… the injured agent, ummm… he will recover. He tried to save your daughter at the cost of his own life.” It was a feeble gesture to try and assuage the trauma of losing a loved one. Collier Adams was beginning to have a bad feeling about all of this as he observed the faces and body language of these two. He was beginning to think he shouldn’t have mentioned the organization that had sent him, the one Kuryakin and Solo served.

_He shouldn’t have said **UNCLE**._

**Author's Note:**

> The opening scene was published previously as a story: Rough But Not Ready.


End file.
